Symbiotic
by The Assassin's Pen
Summary: Stephen settles into his new version of domestic as the sorcerer in charge of a sanctum-one that includes this bizarre relic that seems to have more than a mind of its own. One shot further adding to the fandom love of Strange and his cloak. T for source material.


My sister about died reading some other fics of Stephen and his cloak and requested I write some more. Well, this idea has been simmering for a couple days and the entire internet seems similarly enchanted with this bizarrely adorable relationship so I typed it out after work. Not quite as tired as I was for the last two fics, but once again writing with half a brain. Apologies.

* * *

For the first few weeks, Stephen and the cloak of levitation had a comfortable agreement. The cloak hung around the sanctum when it wasn't needed; sometimes resting on an arm chair, sometimes floating in the library, once sprawled out in the patch of sun coming through the big window on the top floor. When it was needed, it knew and in moments was resting heavy and snug on Stephen's shoulders.

Then it started to get clingy. Stephen had suspicions about what caused it, but he tried not to think about them because, well, it was _weird_. The cloak was a relic, not a pet. It couldn't be truly sentient, could it?

Then again...it had chosen him. He'd sensed it looking at him through the glass and it certainly took his side without hesitation in the fights afterwards.

And it had gotten suspiciously cuddly after the first night it spent in his room. He'd woken up in a cold sweat, grasping at the sheets and staring into the dark with his heart pounding. For a horrible moment he was caught between memories of intense pain in his hands and head and the reality that his accident was long over with. When he'd finally managed to claw his way back from the nightmare he shuddered and buried his head in his trembling hands, taking long, slow breaths until he finally started to calm down.

When he looked up the cloak was hovering only a few feet away, and he could feel it staring at him like someone who'd walked in on something awful and was shocked to their core. Stephen had stared back before turning over slowly and pulling the covers over him, curling up and trying not to feel vulnerable. It was a _cloak_. It hadn't been watching him thrash around.

The next time he woke up from the same nightmare the cloak hesitated only a moment before sweeping low and gliding across the bed as though afraid to startle or intimidate him. Its silky edges skimmed the back of his scarred hands before sweeping around him and settling, less like a garment and more like the hug from a dryer-warm blanket.

He'd felt a little weird, being comforted by an enchanted thing, but the cloak's weight was grounding and he was too tired to care.

As the year progressed and summer turned to fall turned to early winter, he and the cloak saw more of each other. He began wearing it out of the sanctum more often, partly because demons seemed to pop up even when he was just, for the love of all that is holy, trying to pick up some milk, and partly because it was getting chilly and an overcoat didn't really go with his robes.

The cloak had taken to standing quiet sentry in his room most nights, and though it was still a little weird he found its presence soothing. His nightmares actually diminished, but when they didn't the cloak wrapped around him and he was at least able to calm down even if he didn't sleep another wink the rest of the long night.

When he started getting into the habit of reading in front of the fire in late November the cloak picked up a new behavior—it would hang itself by the fire for a few minutes and then sneak over his lap and settle like a lounging cat. He didn't know what to make of that but it was incredibly warm and pleasant so he just raised an eyebrow the first time and went back to his reading.

It became a regular ritual, and he started to wonder if he'd accidentally instilled a Pavlovian response in a relic by making hot chocolate before these nightly sessions. The second he got out the whipped cream can to top off his hot chocolate the cloak was whisking into the study to wait for him. Once, he heard the clatter of wood being dropped in the grate before he even got there. He stood in the doorway and blinked, mug steaming in his left hand and a book about dimensional theory in his right. "Ooooookay," he murmured, setting his things on the table by his armchair and kneeling to light the grate.

When it started to snow the cloak invited itself along even when he didn't ask it to, and he decided he really didn't mind. New York was a strange place. He was getting less and less judgmental expressions and only occasionally a mild snicker over his wardrobe. He didn't care. More people should wear robes, they were absurdly flattering and comfortable.

And besides, the cloak tended to look a little defeated and lonely when he didn't bring it along. Either that, or he had an annoying amount of fixing up to do when he got home.

It seemed to have two modes when he left the sanctum without it—pout, or mischief. The pout mode was when he'd come home to see it draped dramatically over a window seat as though watching for him or it would lay on the floor in front of the fire grate until he lit it. The mischief mode was when he'd return to find no sign of the cloak but every sign of the paintings being switched around, Wong's coffee maker missing its filters, and his books re-arranged just a few letters out of alphabetical order.

When the first real snow fell just three days before December Stephen wore the cloak out to retrieve a set of speaking stones he'd acquired at an occult auction. He'd gone to make sure nothing really dangerous was being sold to the highest bidder and ended up finding a few things that were better off with Wong than the eccentric millionaires who would probably blow their own heads off trying to mess with them. The stones he won fair and square. The other three relics had disappeared mysteriously and Wong was busy settling them in the Hong Kong sanctum just for the extra level of screw you.

He could have taken his sling ring and appeared in a back alley mere feet from his destination, but it felt good to walk and so he stepped out the front door and trotted down the steps, the cloak sweeping happily against the icy stone as he turned down the street. As he walked the cloak reached out in a way that _could_ be passed off as natural and brushed against things, disrupting tiny snow piles and leaving little trails. It radiated a kind of childish happiness and Stephen smiled, wondering how many winters it had been locked up in that glass case. It seemed to really like the snow.

Or so he thought. By the time he got back home an hour later the cloak was wet and shuddered oddly the second the door was shut. He rolled his shoulders in the way he'd learned to unconsciously ask it to let go, but this time it didn't. It clung to him and he frowned.

"Get off."

It didn't move.

"I need to change and put these away," he said, gesturing with the box holding the stones. "I can't do that if you're clinging to me."

It didn't move for a moment before sliding rather pathetically off and trailing alongside him only a few feet above the floor.

"Drama queen," he muttered affectionately.

He locked the stones inside a runic case in the relic room and hung the key on a chain enchanted to burn someone not authorized to touch it. He took a shower and trimmed his goatee up. He changed into a light shirt and trousers to sleep, and the cloak followed him for all of it. Even the shower. Raising an eyebrow at it, he went to the kitchen and made himself an egg salad sandwich and some hot chocolate. The cloak got excited. The rattle of wood in the grate made him chuckle.

A few minutes later and they were both settled in front of the fireplace. He rest his hot chocolate between his hands, careful to keep it as steady as possible and not slop any onto the intricate red fabric.

Later, when he got up and put the fire out and stretched, the cloak slithered off of him with reluctance and hung nearby like a sleepy friend. He wandered into the hall, feeling warm and full, and got into bed with a contented sigh. It had been a long day, and he was pleasantly achy. He turned onto his side and settled in, nearly asleep when he felt something brush his back. He cracked an eye open and tensed, hand closing on the pillow. Slowly, he felt the cloak's fabric sweep under the covers and then over him before settling. He looked down at it.

"I'm fine," he tried to assure, completely perplexed by its behavior. It was cuddly, but it had never _climbed into bed_ with him before. The cloak did not budge. It seemed very content. "Really," he said, turning partially over. The cloak shifted so it was still his primary blanket. "I'm fine, it's plenty warm in here. The snow is outside," he tried to joke, nodding towards the window where a white drift was building against the pane. "I'm not cold."

The cloak still didn't move, and when Stephen tried to move over, it came with him. He froze, wondering for an absurd moment if the cloak just wanted to sleep in a bed. (When did he start thinking that it wanted or slept at all?) "Um, okay, do you need something?"

No response. Naturally. It seemed to have what it needed. He frowned, trying to figure out what was up with it. It had been absurdly clingy ever since they'd gotten home. He'd appreciated it while they were out in the snow, but now it was getting a little over protective.

Unless...his eyes widened.

"Are _you_ cold?" he exclaimed. The cloak shuffled a little bit, but it didn't get off of him. "You're cold." He dropped his head back on the pillow and laughed. "And here I thought you were supposed to keep me warm."

He shook his head and rest a hand over his eyes. What an absurd world. He'd have to tell Christine just for the look on her face. He had a cloak that was not only sentient and enchanted, it was also in love with snow and heat at the same time.

A few days later, Stephen went shopping on his own, leaving the cloak by the fire with a pile of dominoes. If he left it some kind of puzzle it tended not to mope or cause problems, so he'd started hiding rubiks cubes and metal puzzles around the house for it to find. It gave he and Wong much less work to do in the long run.

"I got you something," he said, setting a box on the table and turning it so he could open it. The cloak raised its edge, dominoes clattering to the floor. "Not that I mind sharing my body heat, but sometimes..." he pulled the blanket out and held it up, activating the battery pack. The cloak swept over curiously and probed at it for a moment before realizing that it was warm. It immediately enveloped the blanket and dropped in a contented pile onto the armchair.

"It's called an electric blanket," Stephen said, smiling. "You're welcome."

After that, most nights when the fire finally died in the grate the cloak snuggled in with its electric blanket and waited on the window seat in case Stephen needed it. Sometimes though, even when his sleep was dreamless, Stephen felt the cloak sneak over and slip beneath the covers.

He didn't mind.

* * *

I love the idea that the cloak is borderline addicted to body heat. I mean, it's made to fit on someone's shoulders and be close to their necks. That's a warm spot.


End file.
